


the things i'm not obeying

by grayintogreen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Gen, canon compliant if you squint, gabriel's season four life probably sucked a lot, no seriously this fic was originally written in 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 23:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayintogreen/pseuds/grayintogreen
Summary: The Trickster wishes he could have that level of uncertainty. All he has are distractions.Or "a Gabriel character study set during season four."





	the things i'm not obeying

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to an old fic I dug out of the archives. 2010 old, in fact. It remains unedited from its original form, despite revelations that came much, much later, but it was already 85% headcanon to account for Gabriel's absence in Season Four, anyway.

There are angels walking the earth and the Trickster is extremely pissed off about it. It's nothing particularly new, he supposes- there have been angels stationed on earth since the early days, but this isn't a couple of sentinels watching over humanity and keeping things in order- these are footsoldiers, garrison dogs, the wide-eyed and the restless. They're chomping at the bit for a war they already know can't be stopped and are just walking through the parts until the hammer falls down.

That'll be the shot heard 'round the world.

You can hear whispers of what's to come, even if you can't close your eyes and reach out and touch time, itself. The signs are in the air now, stirred up by the wind and carried on the backs of every damned creature that decides to poke its head out to see what all the commotion is about, only to get it cut off again by some Hunter with an itch to scratch and a shotgun full of rock salt and a flamethrower to scratch it with. The Hunters are just as riled up as everything else, because they can't pretend they don't know what's coming like every other human on earth, but even they can't see the angels walking next to them.

The Trickster almost wishes he could have that level of uncertainty. All he has are distractions.

And a really good hiding place.

~*~

The day Dean Winchester gets out of Hell, the Trickster's in a small town in Kentucky that's barely on any map, but the old-fashioned ice cream parlor is to die for. The mounted TV against the back wall is showing the local news where a stoic reporter with a pleasing baritone voice is reading off the details of the murder of a college student in one of the cabins on Kentucky Lake. Neither the weapon nor any trace of the girl he went up there with were found at the scene and the authorities are denying vehemently that a suspect and a murder weapon can literally vanish into thin air, like everyone's been saying.

The Trickster has to resist the urge to bow flamboyantly in the general direction of the TV. That frat boy had it coming- more than his fair share of sexual assault charges, all of them dropped because his daddy was some big time doctor, and in this area, it's all about who you know, and that and a nickel will get you out of anything. He has a feeling that half of the Sigma Delta Theta sorority at the local college just breathed a sigh of relief at hearing that news.

Sometimes the Trickster thinks he ought to get paid for his contribution to society, but, no, all he gets for his troubles are a few brainless hicks with stakes and bad ideas. There's no justice in the world.

Dean's return from Hell registers across the world to creatures sensitive to that sort of thing, and it's like a sudden ice water bath just when you've gotten good and worked up. The Trickster nearly chokes on his ice cream spoon as something rattles him down to the smoldering fire in the pit of his chest that he once called his Grace. For a second, he remembers something he's tried to forget for thousands of years.

He's not a Trickster. He's Gabriel. An Archangel. A servant of God.

He scowls and slaps the money for his food on the counter and vanishes without a word.

No, he's not. Not anymore.

~*~

Everyone's got their own spin on the creation myth and an argument against everyone else's spin to go with it. For angels, creation is simple. It's fiery existence, shaped and formed by their Father's hand, born with every ounce of knowledge they will ever need. There are only four angels who have actually seen the Creator at work, however- who emerged fully formed and looked upon their Father with wonder in their shimmering eyes and heard His voice in their ears, as he gave them orders and bid them teach their younger siblings His ways.

The being most people know as the Trickster, once upon a time, was one of them.

And it was good. It was perfect. It was purpose and peace and love and devotion. It was everything. Gabriel loved his brothers and his Father with every ounce of his being and couldn't imagine loving anything more.

So, naturally, his Father changed the rules.

~*~

It's too risky openly targeting the Winchesters, but they always wind up flitting into his periphery. He targeted Oak Ridge, Colorado, only to walk in on something already staking out the town and, lo and behold, the Winchesters stroll in to deal with it. Quelle surprise.

The only thing more annoying than the Winchesters is a ghost flu stealing all your potential victims.

He sticks around though, more out of interest than anything. The eccentric local coroner is a good disguise and the boys, dumb as they are, never suspect a thing.

He leaves before the end of it, knowing they'll come out of it on top without having to see how, because those idiots are good at that, and it gets as boring as infomercials, after awhile. Besides, it's not as fun watching if he's not the one causing all the chaos.

~*~

The earth is barely a pinprick below the citadels and ethereal lights of Heaven. To some, it looks cold, lonesome, and muddy. To others, it's the most beautiful thing they've ever laid eyes on and it dulls even Heaven's shimmering glow. Angels gather at the edge to look upon it, their glistening wings drawn around themselves in awe or mantling in apprehension. Four angels hang back, listening as their father tells them of His latest creations with something that is not unlike pride in His voice. They can't seem to recall if so much love was shot through every word like color through a stained glass when he spoke of their creation.

The orders are simple, as they've always been. So simple, so easy to obey, and, yet, two of four are wary.

Only the Morningstar raises his voice in protest. Gabriel stays silent.

~*~

The Trickster thinks of the Mystery Spot when he hears about the ordeal at Halloween, sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground behind a ramshackle diner/gas station in the middle of the Mojave Desert, his back pressed to the paper thin exterior wall. He remembers what his actions twisted Sam into- that obsessive degree of revenge he put into the boy after killing his brother. It was a test, an experiment, more than it was a game. He wanted to see if he could shake Sam out of it, keep him from starting down the long, slow road to everyone else's ruin. It didn't work.

And Dean's been a lost cause since the beginning.

Children of diner patrons play on the dilapidated playground equipment just off to the side of the diner, their parents keeping watchful eyes on them from the windows as they eat and make idle and awkward chit-chat with their fellow travelers, all of them lost causes, none of them aware of what's bubbling under the surface and threatening to consume them all. Humans are a lot like children, he figures. They exist in their own little worlds, selfish and demanding, wanting so much from the Father, but never wondering what He might want from them in return.

And, like children, sometimes they need to be punished.

If he listens hard enough, he can hear the clatter of pots and pans as the cook belittles and berates one of the waitresses in the kitchen right behind the wall he's pressed against. She's eight months along and dead on her feet, and the stress of her job is going to trigger an early labor. The cook's a religious zealot who has more than his fair share of opinions on the subject of unwed young mothers. God will strike you and your bastard down, child.

The Trickster has a thing for irony.

~*~

Michael is the obedient son, Lucifer is the rebellious one, and Gabriel is the one caught between the two. He doubts, but isn't careless enough to show those doubts to anyone. He follows orders, but that doesn't necessarily mean he believes in them. He spends more time on earth than any other angel and he can neither see the appeal of humans nor find cause to hate them. It's an odd, unfortunate, mixed-up place to be, especially as his perfect world becomes rife with tension and argument. He stands between two sides, unable to pick one.

They ask his opinions and he keeps his mouth shut. In Heaven, he's silent, but on Earth, his voice rattles the Heavens with messages from the Holy Father.

One day Lucifer asks him a simple question, _Are they worthy?_

The answer comes out too quickly, as if practiced, and has none of the passion in it that it should, _He believes they are._

He knows it's the wrong answer long before Lucifer turns away.

~*~

This is dangerous ground and he knows it. Color him mildly sentimental, but there was only ever one member of his family that he could stand being around. He loves them all, of course- every last one of them- but he doesn't like most of them. Anafiel was different. He visited her at her station often, while she was stuck playing the sentinel, long after he'd technically skipped out. When she Fell, he just fell off the grid completely, drowned himself in Trickster pleasures, and acted like he didn't care, but it felt like he'd actually lost something.

Now that he's thinking about it, he's lost a lot of somethings.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital are nothing compared to the lights of Heaven, but this is all he and Anafiel- Anna Milton, now- get these days. He keeps a steady pace with the doctor guiding him through the hospital, flipping through Anna's records like he's actually interested in what they have to say, all in the name of maintaining the illusion that he's supposed to be here. All the psychobabble and pretentious notations in cramped handwriting amount to the same thing- Anna's crazy, Anna's schizophrenic, Anna's suffering from religious delusions, blah, blah, pretentious psychobabble dickery, blah. It's probably true from a human perspective- not so much from an angel's.

Little Deano getting tugged out of Hell woke a lot of people up- it wasn't just him. The difference between the two of them is that Anna never knew she was asleep.

He steps into the room when the doctor opens the door for him, hugging Anna's file to his chest, and pursing his lips in an expression of utter incomprehensibility. Anna's human body is a tall, willowy red-head and he can't see her eyes because her hair is falling into her face as she scrawls something on a sketchbook like a hundred frustrations are getting vented onto that page. When the door clicks shut, she pauses, almost like a deer frozen in the light of an oncoming car, and raises her eyes to his face.

They're wide and dark green. "You."

"Hi."

"I don't know you."

"No."

"I feel like I do."

"I bet you do."

Her hands are trembling and she climbs down off her bed, padding barefoot across the floor over to him. There's both recognition and a complete lack-of-recognition in her eyes and he doesn't flinch away when she brings her hands up to brush against his cheek, her brow furrowing, her lips trembling. She looks so tiny and insignificant in that form and she seems unconsciously frustrated by this fact.

"Who are you?" She asks like she already knows the answer, but just wants the proof.

He catches her hand and tugs it down away from his face, breaking into a wide, almost sardonic smile. "Just a figment of your imagination, kiddo."

He leaves her with her hand hanging in mid-air, blinking steadily at nothing where something was.

~*~

He remembers the war like it was just yesterday. For all that time is fluid and operates on human terms and not on angel terms, it could just as easily have been yesterday. Angels are warriors and he would never call himself battle-squeamish, but the idea of angels fighting angels tears him to pieces and as his brothers prepare for war, he hangs back, listening for some sign from his Father.

God is as silent as a tomb and no amount of begging and pleading gets His attention. Where His presence once weighed heavily against Gabriel's entire being, both comfort and awe in tandem, he feels nothing. There's no voice in his ear- no consoling words, no orders. There is nothing but the anguished cries of his family as they fight.

His brothers are beautiful, but locked in combat, they're twisted caricatures of perfection. Flaws in their radiance stand out as clear as an imperfection in a diamond. Their passion and zeal is bitter and poisonous, rotting their Graces to the core like a slow cancer and none of them seem to see it, but he sees what they don't. The bloodshed, the betrayal, the hurt, and the pain- all of it rocks him to his core and leaves him wanting to shout at them to stop.

But he can't bring himself to come between them. It's not his place and their Father still never says a word.

Through the entire war, all he can do is watch. He watches until Michael casts Lucifer into Perdition and locks him away. He watches the angels who followed him flee the curtain of Heaven for a sanctuary they'll never find, shedding their Graces like skin. He watches as the remaining angels lick their wounds and return to their stations as if none of this ever happened, ignoring the dark blotches on their Graces, tainted by the act of shedding the blood of their own brothers.

Gabriel passes through the curtain of Heaven soon after, and never looks back.

~*~

A Trickster's work is never done.

Concrete, Washington is just for kicks- something quiet and inoffensive (if you can call mimicking a Babylonian god of chaos 'quiet and inoffensive') to keep him occupied and off the radar. It really is a legitimate Babylonian myth, even if the coin is a spectacular fake (although try proving that), and it's not like any of it is his typical MO. He can keep the Winchesters on their toes without having to worry about them trying to stake him or their angel and demon buddies catching wise to him.

It's the only huge splash he makes all year.

Everywhere he goes, it's one or two victims- never enough to attract attention. If a Hunter takes interest, he slips off while they're left scratching their heads at the nonsensical nature of the attacks. Part of him longs to stay and twist them around his finger as easily as he did the Winchesters, once upon a time, but he can't risk word getting back. Things are tense right now and he has to remain on the move.

He always comes back to Sam and Dean, despite himself, as if waiting for a sign, a hint, that maybe this won't play out the way he knows it will.

~*~

Human vessels burn up so quickly. He's pretty sure he can count the length of time he's been on earth on his fingers before his vessel starts to fray. Long-term possession doesn't work and it's unfair to the host, but since skipping out, he's stopped thinking about what is and isn't fair. Still, if he wants to keep himself in hiding, he has to find a more stable and less conspicuous form.

A trickster takes up in the place he's staying and it's more necessity than actual intent that leads him to take the creature as a vessel. His previous one is falling apart and you don't have to ask anything less than a human if you can borrow its body. It's meant to be temporary, but the benefits outweigh the obvious blasphemy and his disobedience is enough of a blight on his reputation for that not to matter, plus no one in Heaven would ever expect to find him in a trickster god.

A few centuries later, his hiding place becomes an actual lifestyle choice.

~*~

He's in Cheyenne, Wyoming when Ithuriel finds him. He slips up somewhere on a trick and attracts her attention, and they wind up staring at each other across a strip mall parking lot. The late-night crowds meander carelessly around the parked cars with destinations in mind, and no one pays attention to the somber blonde woman in a white dress that's far from appropriate for the bitter winter chill, staring down a man leaning against the hood of a car and looking vaguely ill.

She can't say his name, but she knows it's him. Worst still, she doesn't know what to do about it. He knows this, because he can feel it. Thousands of years away from Heaven and he can still feel each and every one of them. He keeps meaning to put some distance between himself and them, just so he doesn't have to remember what he's left behind, but every time, he just walks closer and closer to the edge, pretending like he's untouchable. This was bound to happen, sooner or later.

There's so much doubt in her eyes when she looks at him. He hopes it hurts. They all deserve to know the pain he that he couldn't bear to live with any longer.

Not thirty minutes after he leaves her alone there without saying a single word, her passing lights up the night sky and the shine would be beautiful, if it didn't symbolize such tragedy. A day later, her murderer joins her.

It's enough to make him remember why he left in the first place.

It's also enough to remind him of how much of it he misses.

~*~

It's surprisingly easy, being a Trickster and almost more fulfilling than being an angel ever was. There's a freedom to it, coupled with a sense of purpose. The Messenger is worthless without the Word of God, anyway, and if the Father isn't speaking, then what good is he to Heaven anyway?

Better the messages be his own, than none at all.

It's a hedonistic, blasphemous existence, full of hollow joys, and he either he doesn't care or can't bring himself to care, because this is all he has now and there's no sense in examining it. He likes it. It's peaceful and it doesn't hurt. It's painless enough to get lost in for an eternity, flitting about with no care in the world.

It's also bitterly, bitterly lonely.

~*~

It's Anna who finds him this time.

"Broward County Mystery Spot," she announces, her presence heralded by the lights flickering in the apartment he's borrowing. You can barely swing a stick without hitting an angel or a demon these days, and he'd like to avoid both, but clearly he didn't try hard enough.

He peeks at her over the back of his chair, not nearly as displeased as he'd like her to think he is at her appearance here. "Nice place. A little over the top for me."

"That would be a feat," Anna says, jawline twitching in what's almost a smile. "You were trying to stop it."

"I was tryin' to hold it off. One of those muttonheads was gonna get it into their damn heads to kill Lilith one of these days. I just figured if Sam took the healthy alternative to bloodlust and revenge, we'd be golden for a bit, but..." He whistles. "Don't trust a Winchester to do the healthy thing."

She steps across the room and sits down on a couch without another word, hands pressed against her knees. He can see her Grace shimmering under the surface and the same being that seemed small and insignificant months ago now looks far too large to be contained in this one room. She radiates outward, filling every corner. In comparison, his Grace must be sort of dull and ragged at the edges.

"You could have told them the truth," she finally murmurs. "Back in Florida, I mean. You could have told them what you were."

He laughs, the sound wheezy and lacking humor. "Is your halo on too tight, sister? They wouldn't've believed me. Heck, back then, they didn't even believe we existed."

Anna holds his gaze, unblinking and earnest. "Sam did."

"Sam's opinion of angels woulda plummeted if he knew the first angel he ever met was me," he scoffs, turning away from her briefly before meeting her eyes again. "And he still wouldn't've believed me. I don't inspire a whole lotta trust."

She breaks the connection this time, frowning down at the tacky shag carpeting that covers the apartment's living room. "Gabriel."

It's the first time someone's called him by that name in ages and it sends a jolt right through him that makes him grimace. "What?"

She's still staring at the carpet like she can make it less hideous with the power of her mind if she thinks about it hard enough. "Don't make excuses."

He doesn't respond to that. Mostly, because he knows he doesn't have to. Yeah, he could have done more, but that would have risked blowing his cover and he's been in hiding for too long for anything good to come out of him outing himself. Once the other angels catch wind of his act of disobedience, they'll either force him to pick a side again or cast him down as they did Lucifer. He loves them more than anything, but he doesn't want to be near them right now. It's too many reminders, too much pain, and too many wounds getting torn open.

The silence starts to get awkward before Anna finally speaks again, "I'm not upset that you didn't do more. I know what keeping yourself hidden from the others means to you. I almost didn't come, because I was afraid to lead them right to you."

He drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair, pursing his lips. "But you still came."

This time he actually gets a real smile out of her as she turns back to look at him, head tilted just slightly. "You did the same for me once."

"It's no time to be a fallen angel on your own, Anafiel," he says, like that explains everything. If Anna has any reaction to the name she abandoned so long ago, then there's no indication of it. She just smirks at him.

"You're not a fallen angel, Gabriel. You're just misplaced." She stands up and practically beams at him and maybe he's imagining it, but it feels like her Grace brushes against his, warming him slightly in a way that he hasn't felt since he left home. "You'll get it, eventually."

She's gone a second later, leaving him to suss out what she means by that.

The room's a little colder without her.

~*~

You can't just walk back into Heaven. It doesn't work like that. Lucifer didn't want to bow down before humanity and incited a war- he skipped out of Heaven and did everything short of actually Falling. His vessel is a pagan god, he's done things that angels would flinch at, and everything he is now is everything that an angel shouldn't be.

Even if he really wanted to go back, he's set that bridge on fire.

No matter how this ends, he can't go home again.

The best he can do is hope that it's all over quickly.


End file.
